Poem — Fiona Roberton

When I go to visit him
at 4:30 on a Friday he thinks Sunday
and looks into my eyes
as if I might know. I don’t.
I don’t even know
when his dinner time is.
We occupy different worlds now,
one reaching for something while
the other stopped some time ago.
I’m not even sure where
his smart trousers are.
I’ll ask Mum to bring them in,
when she comes with a lighter step.
If we were with him at the time
how was he taken from us?
And if he’s gone now
will we ever see him again?